The day after was the worst. The realisation that we will never see you again descends like a darkness seeping in. The emptiness drip feeds the heart; once full of love now just numb with despair. Your decline was so rapid, and we lost you before we were ready.
A week later, the silence still echoes as loud as ever around the house. No more the jingle jangle of the ID tag on your collar reminding us of your presence. We no longer hear the click click of your claws on the floor as you trotted around. There is no more barking to alert us to the postman visiting, or the bin men collecting the rubbish. The window ledge where you sat to watch the world go by still bears your muddy paw prints, and there are still marks on the window where you pressed your nose against the glass, creating smudges which I can’t bear to wipe away. Your sister from another mister, Zuri, still stares aimlessly into the garden as if awaiting your return from those late night patrols around the perimeter fence, refusing to come in until you had checked and double checked that there were no intruders. The lack of those signs a terrible reminder that we have lost you.
Two weeks later and the pain is still as real as the immediate aftermath. Its a comfort to have Zuri but she must miss you too. You were her best friend, and mine too. My boy. My little man. Its still hard to accept you have gone. The grief is is still there, and in quiet moments it comes flooding over us like a tidal wave of despair.
Before you know it, a month has passed since you left us. Whilst the light in your chocolatey eyes will never return, we can now recognise the flicker of the memories made with you. We are grateful that we had you in our lives for 10 years and the adventures we all had were infamous. Anybody who has read the Blogs will recall what a character you were.
Hound Solo came with us everywhere. He came from sunny Cyprus after a very difficult start in life. We still have no idea how he even survived being shot and given that his little body was laden with lead shot, we always knew that the time we would have with him would be precious. He lived in the North East of England with us, then crossed the world to the continent of Africa, then returning to England to live in Essex then latterly, Norfolk. He was well travelled, and also travelled well. He loved a road trip, and would happily gaze out of a car window for hours. He enjoyed the jaunt on a narrow boat, his nosey nature and curiosity with life well suited to travel.
He had a keen sense of adventure and loved to explore, and climb. Phil and I often likened him to a mountain goat and although rotund, he was quite nimble and agile, scaling logs, climbing up stepped flower beds to get over a fence, once climbing a rickety old step ladder and even once scrabbling up a thatched roof to look at the stars with us. He also loved going on safari when we all lived in Kenya.
He suffered from FOMO and was into everything. His nose was never far from the ground, constantly sniffing and following scents. His recall was terrible because of this. He loved adventures by himself and there were frequent times when he would insist on remaining in the garden despite my incessant calling of his name. His hearing was selective and although he often failed to hear me, he could hear a biscuit wrapper from a mile away. He loved the crackle of paper and was renowned for unwrapping Christmas presents after helping himself to gifts from underneath a Christmas tree.
He was also constantly on the look out for an escape route in the garden. His lone adventures were exciting for him, but terrifying for Phil and I when he would give ‘that look’ and with a twinkle in his eye, he would gallop off into the wilderness. Catching him became a game so we had to try to tempt him back with a tennis ball, or pretend we were leaving him, walk away and then his abandonment issues would kick in and he would come belting back.
I recall how if you were fussing him along his back and you touched his ‘spot,’ he would explode with excitement and sprint off, his front legs thrown out like flailing arms. He was hilarious to watch, with his long silky ears flapping about wildly. His tongue would hang out and I swear he was smiling. Phil and I referred to his particular look as his happy face. He had the sweetest nature, and his quirks were comical, but he was the happiest dog.
Around the house, he was my shadow. He would follow me round, keeping me in check. I miss him barging into the bathroom to simply stare at me whether on the toilet or in the shower. His front paws were very dexterous and Phil and I compared his paws to hands and fingers. He could and would open doors, and he could pull food off kitchen counters with those fingers. He once ate an entire steak and gravy pie owing to his ability to curl his front toes and use them like fingers. He would sneak onto the bed in the middle of the night when Phil was away, even though he knew very well he was not allowed on the furniture. But I miss his presence, his snuggling into me. His loud snoring which earned him a nick name of snuffle pig no longer reverberates at night.
He always had to greet you at the door with something in his mouth, usually his blanket. I lost count of the times he would drag that blanket joyfully around the garden, through mud and then back round the house, tripping himself up on it. His numerous blankets lie scattered around the house, full of holes where he had chewed them. Despite the damage, I can’t bear to part with them. They still hold his smell. Those blankets and tennis balls were the love of his life but he was happy in his own world.
He was incredibly friendly and happy to greet any person, or any other animal for that matter. He was loved by everybody who met him even when he was being aloof. He was content to sniff other dogs but sometimes became offended if noses pried into his private areas.
He was endlessly cheeky, always pushing his luck but he knew how to work us with his hang dog look, and giving us ‘the eyes.’ Everybody fell for it and just to add effect, he had perfected holding up his ‘poorly paw’ when the situation demanded it particularly to garner sympathy if he was being told off. He would spook at loud noises such as a cork being popped in a bottle of fizz, the clatter of cutlery in the kitchen and we would refer to this as his PTSD, a flashback to when he was shot. As quirky as he was though, he was never bothered by fire works, or the bang of an actual shotgun when we took him to many a shooting session.
He was a greedy dog and would eat anything. He especially loved greenery including cucumber, lettuce and even sea weed. Visits to the beach were always entertaining when he would catch sea weed in his mouth and drag it out of the sea, much to our disgust. He was not adverse to raiding the bin. We knew he was ill when one day, he simply stopped eating. Anything. The dog that ate everything including clothing, his own bed, blankets, bags, shoes, curtains, horse manure and vegetables, stopped eating anything. At all.
And then it returns. We lurch from those fond memories and get caught out by the waves of feeling utterly bereft. Did we miss something? If I had noticed the signs earlier, would this have prolonged his place on earth? There is irrational guilt and dwelling on the weeks prior to his passing, questioning whether we did something terribly wrong but in moments of clarity, we realise that death is inevitable and you were terminally ill. The symptoms came on suddenly and rapidly and it was too late to save you.
Through tears and feelings of disbelief, we accept that it was your time. We know full well that you were not going to live forever, but we weren’t ready for you to leave us when you quietly slipped away. It is hard knowing that one last stroke, a final snuggle, caressing your ears or fussing your tummy would not have roused you from your final slumber. The memories are all we have of you now, but there are plenty for which we remain eternally grateful.
But you have gone and nothing will ever bring you back. You lived the fullest life and it was a privilege to have had you for as long as we did. We will forever treasure the memories we have of you, and the thousands of photographs of you, and the GoPro footage which made us laugh for hours. They say that time is a great healer and we are hopeful that in time, the pain and the grief will fade, but the memories will not.
A piece of the Nomadic Family Unit has been lost. Hound Solo can never be replaced, and the hole that has appeared in our hearts will never be filled. There will always be that place at the dinner table on Christmas day for you, until we meet again.
We will miss you forever, our boy.
#goodbyemyfriend
#neverforgotten
#resteasylittleman
#withlovealways
Nomadic Family Unit 
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